So that’s how they keep track these days. When he was with the Northern Constabulary, they’d still used scrying stones. Examining the spiders closer, Ian observed that beneath each web sat a map of a city section. Like newspaper spread at the bottom of a birdcage, he mused.
“Every jurisdiction outside of the square mile has their own setup,” Singh said, swiveling back to place herself in front of her desk. “So walk me through this again, Cameron. You say a witch stole your memories?”
“I’m still missing the last four days.”
“And yet you’re able to remember where this occurred?”
“Aye, just here,” he said, using one of the spiders for a point of reference to show the strip of foreshore he’d been attacked on. He further explained that it was only because of his hearth elf that he was able to reclaim the majority of his memories outside of the questionable four days.
“Hob is still with you? Elves these days are usually so fickle.”
“He’s a wee bit older than most,” he said. “Still carries old-fashioned notions of loyalty.”
Singh’s eyes traveled to the spider he’d pointed to and back before checking a chalkboard on the wall behind her that logged individual incidents. “As you can see, we’ve had no reports of any spells of that nature in any of the wards.” She folded her hands together and gave him a solemn look. “Though I do tend to believe you may have taken a blow to the back of your head.”
“There are ways to fool the system,” he said knowingly. She had to understand that as well, though Ian imagined it was nearly impossible to admit after boasting your department had only recently installed the latest advancements in detective work. Besides, not all magic relied on spells. Some magic was inherent.
“Do you want me to arrest the witch?”
Two hours ago, he would have screamed yes. His instinct had been tempered since then, instructing him to wait and watch. Mary’s magic was peculiar and macabre, but if Edwina was right and he was being hasty by jumping to conclusions about her connection to one of the victims—the one whose death he’d relived—she may yet hold the key to identifying the killer. And how he would love to be the one who figured that out first.
Singh drummed her fingers on the desk before reaching into the credenza. She thumbed through a number of files before plucking an anemically thin folder out. “Three days ago, you had yourself arrested so you could ask about George Elvanfoot. Apparently, he’s been missing for approximately three weeks now.” She looked up. “Any luck finding him?”
This was where it got tricky.
“I believe so,” he began. “It’s possible some piece of information you provided me with three days ago led me to his whereabouts.”
“But if you found him, where is he? You haven’t lost him, have you?”
“Aye, that’s the question.” He pressed his palms against his trousers, as much for the sweat building on them as to brace himself. “I suspect I found him, or at least had a strong lead on where to find him, a few days after arriving in the city. Whatever I discovered took me to the foreshore at low tide two nights ago, where I was hit on the back of the head.”
“And that’s where you claim a witch stole your memories once you were barely conscious.”
“It sounds daft, aye, but I’d be grateful if you could enlighten me about what we talked about last time I was here.”
“You really have lost your memory.” Singh shook her head as though it was easier to just accept what he said, then studied the brief report tucked in the folder. “Very well. We talked about his father, as I recall. We speculated about whether the son was missing or simply didn’t wish to be found, though I believe you ruled that out after talking to his acquaintances.” When Ian nodded, she leaned back in her chair as if to evaluate the situation from a different perspective. Then she dangled the bait. “You know, there are other men who’ve notably disappeared from the streets of late. Mortals, that is. Any thoughts on that?”
“I read they’ve all turned up in the morgue with their throats slit.”
Bottomfield knocked, then entered the office carrying a tray with a pot of tea, two cups, and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Singh thanked the constable, handed him a report for him to pass on to one of her detectives, then waited with her hands propped under her chin until he left to speak again. “The men were robbed too. First a blow to the back of the head,” she said pointedly. “Supposedly to stun but not kill, rendering the men incapable of fighting back. Then the knife across the neck, two of them to near decapitation.”